


Prism White

by singingwithoutwords



Series: All The Colors We Can Be [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Consent Issues, M/M, Overprotective Wash, Post-Season/Series 08, body image issues, omega!Tucker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:42:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singingwithoutwords/pseuds/singingwithoutwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Honestly, it's not the <em>worst</em> time he could have gone into heat.  It's just inconvenient and really fucking awkward, okay?</p><p>Or: the one where Tucker goes into heat, Wash is an overprotective mama bear, and the only functional alpha in Valhalla is on Red Team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, I just wanted to write some ABO. Why can't I write simple oneshots anymore?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Wash is overprotective and Tucker has no use for him.

The 21st of every month was Armor Cleaning Day, when the Reds and Blues of Valhalla called a 24-hour truce so everyone could get out of their armor and give it a thorough cleaning. Even though it had been Wash's idea, even Sarge was completely behind it, not even attempting to argue against the suggestion. Everyone seemed to enjoy taking a day just to hang out, since the actual armor cleaning generally only took a couple hours in the morning.

This 21st was the usual warm and sunny, and Wash was of course the only person up at sunrise- he was generally done cleaning his armor by the time anyone else got out of bed.

It was just past 0800 when he caught the first hint of the scent, something faint and spicy curling through the morning air. It was sort of like cinnamon, with a hint of woodsmoke and something Wash had no name for that brought to mind sun-warmed skin and summer breezes.

He followed the scent into Blue Base. It had seeped into the common areas, but was thicker in the corridor leading to the bunks. It eddied there, growing stronger by the minute, which meant it had two possible sources: Tucker or Caboose.

Caboose's room was all the way at the back of the base, where he'd have to pass Wash's room to get into the rest of the base or out of the base entirely, so Wash decided to start with Tucker, hitting the control panel. The door didn't budge, meaning Tucker had locked it. Tucker never locked his door.

“Tucker?” he called, frowning. “You okay in there?”

“Fuck off, asshole!”

Okay, fairly standard response as far as words went, but Tucker's voice sounded... off.

“Tucker, open your door.”

“Fuck! Off!” Tucker repeated, followed by a faint whine.

“I have the override command, you know.”

“You come in here, I will shoot you in the fucking head,” Tucker threatened. The longer he spoke, the shorter of breath he sounded.

“I just want to make sure you're okay.”

“I'm fucking fine!”

“You don't sound fine from out here.”

The scent was becoming overpowering. The stronger it got, the more pleasant it smelled, something about it tugging at Wash's memory, like he should recognize it. Like it tugged at protective instincts long buried, phantom pains in an amputated limb, like... oh, _hell_ no.

“Tucker, are you in heat?”

The silence from the other side of the door was telling.

 _Fuck_.

He honestly never would have pegged Tucker for an omega. He'd been pretty sure he was a beta, in fact, with alpha aspirations; he wouldn't be the first beta Wash met who thought he had to overcompensate to make himself desirable. But it was impolite to ask, and the rare omega who made it into the armed forces was on suppressants at all times, anyway. And even if Wash had a nose sharp enough to tell the difference between a suppressed omega and a beta with weak pheromones, he hadn't exactly been given much of a chance to: Tucker usually slept late on ACD, cleaned his armor after everyone else was done, then vanished for the rest of the day.

“Fuck,” Wash repeated out loud, closing his eyes and leaning back against the door. “It's okay, Tucker. I'm not going to do anything- just let me in.”

“That's what they all say,” Tucker said with a humorless laugh. “Fuck off.”

“I'm not an alpha, Tucker,” Wash said, sighing. “I don't have a dynamic at all anymore.”

“Bullshit. Even Caboose has a fucking dynamic.”

“Nobody who was in Project Freelancer does. They decided it was too distracting.” And he had to admit, if not for that he probably would have forced his way into Tucker's room by now, because he couldn't recall ever meeting an omega who smelled this fucking _good_. So hey, something to thank that assholes for.

“That... that's pretty sick, dude,” Tucker said after a minute.

“You're telling me.”

“You're not just jerking me around, right? Because that'd be a pretty shitty thing to do to a guy in heat.”

“Would you be this paranoid if I brought you some food?” Wash asked, smiling to himself. He definitely would never have guessed Tucker was an omega.

“Depends- do we have any chocolate? Because I'd _totally_ let an alpha in here if he had chocolate.”

Wash laughed outright. “I'll see what I can find,” he promised. “You sure you're okay in there?”

“I'll be fine. Not like this is my first heat, dude.”

“Okay. I'll be right back.”

Caboose, dressed in nothing but a pair of PT shorts, leaned out of his door and inhaled deeply. He was a solid beta with a heavy pheromone mix that was probably the only reason no one had just hauled off and killed him by now- it was too damn calming, and so strong even double filtering couldn't completely remove it from the air.

“It smells like Tucker out here,” Caboose announced, frowning. “Is Tucker going to have another baby?”

“I sincerely hope not,” Wash said, sighing. “Go wash your armor, Caboose- I'll take care of Tucker.” 

 

* * *

 

It wasn't until nearly an hour later, after Tucker had let him in long enough to hand over the entire base's supply of chocolate and some actual food and water, that Wash remembered the Reds. Valhalla wasn't exactly massive, and even with Blue Base being downwind from Red Base, it was only a matter of time before they caught Tucker's scent. Assuming they hadn't already.

Dynamic was confidential medical information, and not something people tended to discuss openly. He didn't know what any of them were. Simmons, being part cyborg, didn't have much of a scent. Grif was such a confusing mix of his own scent and Simmons that he was impossible to pin down. Sarge tended to keep to himself while out of armor, so he was a mystery, too.

Wash got his battle rifle. Just in case. The kickback would hurt a bit if he had to use it unarmored, but he could deal.

He stationed himself outside Tucker's door not a full minute before he heard the sound of voices outside.

“-telling you, I smell an omega in heat,” Grif was saying. “It's not my fault Sarge fucked your nose up when he was playing mad scientist.”

“Even if that's true, we still shouldn't be here,” Simmons said. “I mean, what if it's Agent Washington? Are you going to knot Agent Washington?”

“You honestly think that hardass is an omega? No, I bet it's Caboose. He's not so bad, even if he is a dumbshit.”

Wash planted himself in the middle of the corridor and made sure the clip in his rifle was full.

Grif rounded the corner first, stumbling to a stop. He was wearing sweats and an undershirt, showing far more of his patchwork skin than usual. Spending time out of the armor every month had darkened the grafts slightly, but not nearly enough to match his natural skin tone, and he tended to cover himself as much as possible. If Wash had to guess, this was what he'd intended to wear while pretending to clean his armor so badly Simmons would insist on doing it for him.

Simmons was only a few steps behind Grif, bare to the waist. He wasn't nearly as self-conscious about his modifications as Grif, preferring to cover as little of his cybernetic parts as possible due to them overheating easily outside the climate control of his armor. Seeing them side-by-side made it obvious where Grif had gotten his grafts from, even if the skin was slightly more tanned on Simmons.

“Oh. Um... hey, Agent Washington,” Simmons said. “What's up?”

“Leave,” Wash said flatly. He didn't threaten them just yet, wanting to avoid violence if he could. The last thing he needed was Sarge accusing him of breaking the truce. “Now.”

“I'm not here to deal with you,” Grif said, glaring.

“I know why you're here,” Wash said. “And I'm asking you politely, just this once, to leave.”

“That's not your call to make.” Grif crossed his arms stubbornly, showing a lot more aggression than he normally bothered with.

“With the amount of pheromones you're bleeding, he won't be able to tell you no. And we both know it.”

“So you're gonna shoot me instead?”

“If you try to get past me, yes,” Wash said evenly.

“Sarge'll kill you for breaking the truce.”

“You still won't get to Tucker.”

“Tucker?” Grif repeated. “Really? Wow. I... I never would've guessed that. Wow.”

“I'm sure he appreciates the sentiment. You can leave now.”

“Not until I talk to him,” Grif snapped. He was starting to show visible signs of agitation, which was not a good thing. “I can talk to him without letting him smell me, right?”

“No.”

“Listen to me, you little beta shit, you let me talk to him _right fucking now_ , or I'll-”

Wash calmly lifted his rifle and took aim at Grif's face. “Talk to me like that again,” he said, “and I will blow your head off. Understood?”

“Are you assholes done out there?” Tucker demanded through the door. “Seriously, is everything a dick-measuring contest with alphas? I oughta fucking shoot you both!”

“Tucker-”

“Shut up, _Mom_ ,” Tucker snapped. “I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself. Thanks for guarding my virtue or whatever. Stop it. _Fuck_. Which one is it?”

Grif shoved past Wash to the door, but at least he didn't try to open it yet. “It's Grif.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” Grif agreed with a soft laugh. “You gonna let me in?”

“Yeah. Just... gimme a sec.”

It took all of Wash's self-control not to react to the door opening, to the cloud of scent that rolled out in the split second it took for Grif to stumble inside and the door to slide shut behind him, leaving Wash and Simmons alone in the corridor.

After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, Simmons cleared his throat. “You should come to Red base,” he said. “Caboose, too.”

“I'd rather stay,” Wash said. “So I can shoot his ass as soon as he comes out.”

“Which is why you should leave,” Simmons said, sighing. “Trust me, it's driving me nuts, too. We just both need to not be in here.”

Wash wanted to argue, but he wasn't an idiot. He knew what he was feeling was just leftover alpha possessiveness. Tucker was a grown man. If he wanted to share his heat with Grif, there wasn't much Wash could do about it. “Fine.”

Simmons laid a hand on his shoulder, matte black silicone over wires and steel. “Let's go.”

Against his better judgment and all his instincts, Wash went.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grif is an unconventional alpha and Tucker has no problem with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of you who fed my inner comment whore. Hopefully I didn't keep you waiting _too_ long for this one.

The very first thing Grif did, before the door even finished closing, was bury his face in the curve of Tucker's neck and breathe deep.

He'd been near omegas in heat before, but never close enough to touch, to immerse himself in the scent and revel in it like this. There had always been other, better alphas around, alphas he couldn't hope to beat in a fight, so he'd always backed down without trying to assert a claim. If he'd known it would be anything like this, he would _not_ have given up so easily. It was like the ocean, vast and warm and salty where his lips touched bare skin. Like sun and shaved ice and bonfires and _home_ , and he hadn't known how much he craved it until now.

Arms circled his shoulders, and Tucker cursed into his hair, pulling him away from the door. The room was dark, windowless, with the electric blue glow of the door controls the only light. Grif stumbled slightly trying to keep up, not wanting to lose so much as a millimeter of skin contact along the way, letting Tucker lead him. They found the bed by falling on it, Tucker flat on his back, pressed between Grif and the thin mattress, and Grif was pretty sure he was about to lose his goddamn mind. He pulled back slightly, trying to catch his breath, but Tucker yanked him back down and kissed him, hard and aggressive, and who was Grif to argue with that?

Tucker growled softly, not a noise porn had led him to expect from an omega, and finally pulled back so they could both breathe for a second. “I am not your bitch,” he snapped, low and threatening and definitely not up for negotiation. “Got it?”

“Got it,” Grif agreed immediately. He'd never found the notion of someone submitting to him just because their biology said they should all that appealing, to be honest, and had always preferred beta/beta porn to alpha/omega. “Does that mean I'm your bitch?”

Tucker froze under him, completely still, not even breathing, and Grif cursed his big fat stupid-ass mouth for about half a second, because that was how long it took Tucker to reverse their positions, grab the front of his shirt, and literally _tear it off him_. That was going to leave marks. Marks that were so, so fucking worth it, because that might possibly be _the_ hottest thing anyone had ever done to him.

“Say that again,” Tucker ordered, raking his nails down Grif's scarred chest. “Now.”

“I'm your bitch?” Grif repeated. This was nothing like sex ed or porn or swapping stories over cheap 2am beer with his buddies. This was way better.

Judging by the low, animal noise of arousal Tucker made, he agreed.

“Alpha, I am going to _ruin_ you. ”

Grif shuddered, closing his eyes against the darkness, and smiled. “Can't wait.”

* * *

Caboose had managed to completely soak himself while washing his armor, as usual. Wash privately suspected he did it on purpose, and he was pretty sure he  _should_ be at least annoyed about it. He couldn't be, though, no matter how hard he tried, because when he stepped out of the base, Caboose was soaked to the bone, drying his armor, and smiling broadly.

Caboose was always smiling, yeah, but this smile was different. His usual smile was one of empty-headed confusion, someone smiling because they knew there _was_ a joke, not because they _got_ it. This smile was satisfied, content, completely at peace with the universe and all things in it, and Wash wasn't about to take that away.

With Project Freelancer, ranking had been everything. With Recovery, there was nothing but the mission. Wash's history was one of backstabbing, double-crossing, abandoning your team if it helped you reach your goal. Teamwork to him had always been a means to an end, a necessary evil.

Frankly, he preferred the way things were now.

Valhalla wasn't so much two opposing teams as one big dysfunctional family that generally communicated by shooting at each other. It was maybe the first place Wash actually felt as if he was  _wanted_ , and he didn't want to lose that. So if Caboose wanted to dump a bucket of water on his head once a month, that was perfectly fine with Wash. Whatever made him happy.

Caboose spotted them and waved enthusiastically, scattering droplets of water everywhere. “Hello, Agent Washington! Hello, Cyborg Simmons!”

“Hey, Caboose,” Wash said. “Armor all clean?” Caboose nodded, patting his chest plate and leaving a wet handprint behind. “Great. Listen, how would you like to go to Red Base today?”

“Are we invited?” Caboose asked. “Because we were not invited when I tried to bring them cake. Sarge shot my cake.”

“It's Armor Cleaning Day,” Wash reminded him. “No shooting.”

“You have a gun,” Caboose pointed out, helpfully pointing at Wash's battle rifle.

“I was cleaning it when Simmons invited us to go to Red Base,” Wash lied. He always felt a twinge of guilt at how easily it came to him. “I just forgot to put it back.”

“I'll put it away for you,” Simmons offered. He might not be as smart as he thought he was, but he was smart enough to know letting Wash go back into the base with a loaded gun wasn't the best idea in the history of mankind. “You can help Caboose finish up out here.”

Wash was reluctant to let go of his gun, but he did it. He could still smell Tucker, even all the way out here, and he really did need to get away as soon as possible. He deliberately didn't watch Simmons walk back inside, instead concentrating on helping Caboose dry and stow his armor for tomorrow.

Simmons came back out after a minute, his organic eye a bit wide and his expression caught somewhere between disgust and awe.

“I know you're worried about Tucker,” Simmons said by way of greeting, patting Wash on the shoulder, “but you really, really shouldn't be. Trust me.”

Wash was very tempted to go see what the hell was happening in there, but again, common sense got the better of him. He was worse than useless to Tucker, and he didn't have the right to try and tell him what to do. Omegas were adults fully capable of making their own choices.

“Let's go,” he said, giving Caboose a gentle push toward Red Base. “You want to go swimming, Caboose?”

“Yes!” Caboose exclaimed, taking off running. He liked the river well enough, but kept trying to convince everyone that the teams needed to switch bases because Red Team didn't use the beach enough. Caboose wanting to go swimming (read: wading in the shallows and chasing fish) was up there with death and taxes on the certainty scale.

Wash followed more sedately, trailing Simmons.

Caboose was already in the water by the time they reached Red Base, splashing a lot and greeting the fish by arbitrarily assigned names like Sharkmouth and Stripes.

“I'll get us some snacks,” Simmons offered, heading toward the base. “Keep an eye on Caboose.”

Wash smiled, pulling off his shirt and setting it aside. If Valhalla was one big family, Simmons was definitely the mother. And he wasn't going to think too hard about the fact that Tucker and Caboose occasionally referred to him as 'dad'. Instead, he waded out into the water to keep Caboose from drowning while attempting to catch and hug a massive fan-tailed fish with bright green scales.

* * *

Heat operated like a tide, swelling and drawing back in predictable waves that let them catch their breath and refuel between frenzied bouts of sex. Tucker's heat had slightly shorter swells that made up for it by being way more intense than normal, and he felt pretty close to dying by the time it finally ebbed.

Tucker had only had to 'suffer' through three heats without an alpha, if you counted aliens as alphas, because seriously- those freaks could help with a fucking heat. Aside from the aliens, he'd generally preferred suffering over alphas. Even in this day and age, when omegas were allowed in the military and high political office and everything, there were still plenty of alphas who thought their dynamic made them better than him. That they had some automatic claim to him, as if he wasn't a human being with his own mind and will, that he wasn't allowed to think they were assholes that he'd sooner punch than fuck. His home planet wasn't exactly backwards by the standards of most, but they definitely clung to some archaic stereotypes when it came to omegas.

Grif was completely different.

Heat had always been something he just had to suffer through no matter what, a part of who he was that was actually kind of painful to feed even at the best of times. He'd never come off the first swell of heat feeling anything but tired and vaguely used, and Grif had managed to exhaust him already.

Grif had gladly stayed flat on his back and done everything Tucker told him to, obeying him like their dynamics were reversed, and it was the hottest thing an alpha had ever done for him. He'd even _asked for permission to knot Tucker_ , and who the fuck did that? Nobody, that's who. Except apparently Grif. Because for once, Tucker's luck didn't suck balls.

“Doing okay down there?” Tucker asked, smiling when Grif groaned in answer. “Good. I need chocolate. Want some?” Normally he wouldn't even offer, but... well, he was dick, but not that big of one.

“M'fine,” Grif said, and Tucker heard movement from the bed under him.

Tucker groped for the wall, slapping the control for the lights. They came up at 50%, so at least nobody got blinded, but Grif still cursed and threw an arm over his eyes.

“Don't be such a baby,” Tucker said, locating the chocolate Wash had brought him earlier and grabbing a bar. “It's not that bright.”

Grif growled, the first overtly alpha thing he'd done since Tucker got him on the bed.

Tucker unwrapped the bar and bit into it, rolling his eyes. “You're such a bitch, Red.”

“Bite me, Blue,” Grif snapped automatically. “Just turn off the light.”

“Trying to eat here,” Tucker said. “Light's kind of important.”

“Turn it off.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Why?”

“Because I asked you to, maybe?”

“Not until you tell me why,” Tucker said, finishing off that bar and grabbing another.

“Are you that dense, or just that much of an ass?” Grif demanded, growling again.

Tucker poked the arm over Grif's face, frowning. It was the pale one he'd gotten from Simmons. Between the tanned parts of Grif's face and Tucker's own dark skin, it really did look white.

“Dude, I knew what you looked like before I let you in here,” he pointed out. “And fuck you, we're riding the next wave with the lights on.”

Grif moved his arm enough to glare at Tucker. “I hate you,” he said. “Seriously, once this is over, I'm shooting your ass.”

“I don't plan on leaving you that much energy,” Tucker said, very carefully lying down on Grif's chest, idly tracing stitch scars up his side. “Speaking of, better catch a nap while you can- we've only got an hour or so before the next wave hits.”

He left the lights on. Grif didn't ask him to turn them off again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a quick rundown of Blue Team's dynamics!
> 
> **Tucker**  
>  Tucker is unique even among omegas, due mainly to the changes his body underwent while pregnant with Junior. He has to take twice the amount of suppressants a normal omega would, and his body flushes them from his system at a much faster rate. When an omega stops taking suppressants, there's usually a short detox period of up to a week while the drugs filter out of their system enough to allow them to go into heat. Tucker's system will clear itself completely in 24-48 hours at most.
> 
> **Caboose**  
>  Wanna talk about God's way of compensating? Caboose is quite possibly the most _annoying_ beta you'll ever meet, but you won't do anything to him no matter what he does. His scent is so strong that it can't be masked, and even being filtered out of his suit, diluted in the surrounding atmosphere, and filtered into your suit can't get rid of it. It's entirely possible that, if he forwent the suit entirely, he could stop pitched battle just by standing in the way of both armies. It doesn't help that his scent is borderline omega as well as freakishly strong.
> 
> **Wash**  
>  Wash is listed as a low-functioning beta, a beta with such a weak scent that's it's pretty much undetectable. In actuality, he's a non-functioning alpha. Every alpha and omega who entered Project Freelancer's ranks had their dynamics effectively removed through invasive and highly illegal surgery, on the grounds that their dynamics made them unpredictable and easily manipulated. Wash no longer has a recognizable scent, but he can still scent others, and his body still tries to react to those scents the way it used to.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Wash and Simmons bond and so do Tucker and Grif.

Where Simmons managed to hide cookies so that Grif couldn't find them, Wash would probably never know, but there was a whole package of chocolate chip ones waiting when Caboose finally agreed to get out of the water and they climbed back onto dry land. Caboose ate as many as Simmons would let him, then sprawled on the grass and immediately fell asleep to make the wait before he was allowed back in the water seem shorter.

Wash sat a short distance away, letting the sun dry him off. Simmons sat next to him with a faint whine of servo motors and a sigh.

“Honestly, I don't know how you keep up with him 24/7,” Simmons said, shaking his head.

“He's not so bad,” Wash said, shrugging. “Just... enthusiastic.”

“That's one way of putting it,” Simmons agreed, laughing. “You doing okay?”

Wash nodded. “I can barely smell him out here,” he said. Tucker's scent was fading and changing, no longer broadcasting now that he had an alpha with him. Soon it would dissipate, at least out here, and Wash would be fine.

“So,” Simmons said after a minute of silence, “if it's not prying to ask, why didn't you try for Tucker? You're an alpha, too, right?”

Right for the gut. Simmons had remarkably good aim for someone not even trying.

“Because I'm not an alpha. Well, technically, I am, but not in a way that would be... useful.”

Simmons got it right away. Wash wasn't as surprised as he supposed he should be. “Project Freelancer?” he guessed. Wash nodded. “Wow. I... I know how that feels.”

Wash grunted neutrally, not wanting to pressure or dismiss him. He actually knew very little about the Reds beyond what was in their public files, and he was curious, but he didn't want to accidentally force Simmons into revealing information he'd rather not.

“I like to think Sarge's intentions were a little nobler, though. See, I used to be an omega, and you know how the military is about omegas.”

“Why sign up, then?”

“I didn't actually present until after I enlisted. In Basic, in fact. They put me with a beta squad, since statistically someone who presents that late is overwhelmingly more likely to be a beta. When I did finally present, it was... unpleasant.”

Wash had heard a great deal about first heats. None of it was positive. First heat was intense, painful, and terrifying, and most omegas never fully remembered it. Going into first heat in crowded barracks – or worse, during strenuous physical activity – surrounded by betas must have been downright torture.

“Our instructor thought I was faking,” Simmons said, sighing. “Forced me to run the obstacle course as punishment. Base medical said if Sarge hadn't found me when he did, I probably would have died.” He shivered faintly, and Wash hesitated before placing a hand on his shoulder. Simmons gave him a weak smile, so it must have been the right thing to do. “So Sarge was there from the start. He looked out for me through Basic, personally requested me for his squad. He really has been like a father to me over the years, and when he had the chance to get rid of the part of me that nearly killed me, I'm not surprised he did.”

“Are you happy this way?” Wash asked.

“I'm adjusted,” Simmons said, running his flesh-and-blood hand over his regulation haircut. “Beyond that... I'll be honest, I _liked_ being an omega. I liked the way alphas reacted to me, the way _I_ reacted to _them_. I even enjoyed my heats, when I could have them. Part of me wanted to kill Sarge when I woke up. Part of me still does from time to time. But I'm not getting that part of me back, so it's best to just accept what I am now and move on, right? ”

Wash thought back to his own initial rage after waking up from a 'routine medical exam' with no functioning dynamic. He thought about the boiling anger that had consumed him for weeks before Project Freelancer had managed to convince him it really was for his own good. He thought about how much worse that must have been for Simmons, giving up parts of himself to save Grif's life and coming to, only to find other parts had been cut out of him and simply discarded. How much rage and resentment that would cause and what carrying it could do to a person.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, that's probably best.”

* * *

The next wave hit like a tsunami, dragging them both under and spitting them back out exhausted all over again, and Grif was beginning to seriously think this was going to kill him. He wasn't used to this level of activity, and even with Tucker doing most of the work, it was wearing him down.

“God,” he gasped, once he'd gotten back at least that much breath. “You're going to kill me. This is an assassination plot.”

Tucker laughed into the curve of his neck. “Please. We don't need to kill you, you're too goddamn lazy to be a threat.” The fucker barely sounded winded.

“Fuck you,” Grif snapped out of habit more than actual offense.

“Already did that.”

“Fuck you so hard, Blue.”

Tucker laughed at him again.

“Please tell me we're done. Seriously, I can't last much longer,” Grif said. “Seriously. Going. To. Die.”

“Sorry, dude,” Tucker said, not sound apologetic _at all_. “First wave hit around midnight, heat usually lasts about 24 hours. You're doomed.”

Grif groaned. “Fuck me.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Tucker retorted smoothly.

Grif groaned again to cover up a laugh and lifted his arm, hesitating. “S'it cool if I... put my arm around you?” he asked. His pride would not let him say the word cuddle.

“Go ahead,” Tucker said, carefully shifting until he was comfortable. “Can I ask you something? Why do you keep wanting permission to do shit? If not for this morning, I'd swear you weren't even an alpha.”

Grif flushed. It felt hotter on the paler parts of his face. “Something wrong with not acting like I can do whatever the hell I want just because I'm an alpha?”

“I didn't mean it like that, dumbass,” Tucker snapped, managing to punch him in the shoulder. “I kinda dig it, really, I was just wondering. Alphas don't work that way, not in my experience.”

“Yeah, well, my dad's an omega,” Grif said, wrapping his arms loosely around Tucker. “My mom, too. And you bet your ass they made me respect them. I just grew up thinking of omegas as people, that's all.”

“Don't see many omega/omega pairings.”

“They both got sick of shitty alphas.”

“I might have to thank 'em someday,” Tucker said. “This's probably the best heat I've ever had.”

Grif wasn't entirely sure what to say to that. He could only guess what sort of assholes Tucker had paired with for past heats- school health classes were still split along dynamic lines, and he could recall his fellow alphas saying some pretty disgusting shit about omegas. He'd even punched a few of them for it, and none of that shit had been directed at  _him_ . Tucker had probably gotten into more than a few fights himself.

Luckily, Tucker didn't seem to want a response. “Naptime again,” he announced, yawning. “I'll try to go easier on you next round.”

Grif groaned one last time, closing his eyes. Now that he had a good idea of what he was in for, he wasn't going to waste his downtime.

* * *

Caboose woke up after 30 minutes almost to the second and immediately headed back into the water. Simmons went with him, leaving Wash to guard the cookies and contemplate how screwed up everyone in Valhalla was. He didn't know what was screwed up about Sarge – aside form the blindingly obvious – but he knew there had to be something.

He chose not to dwell on it, instead focusing on Caboose and Simmons having a splash war in waist-deep water. They didn't look like soldiers, just ordinary guys enjoying themselves at the beach. Caboose was already soaked again, while Simmons was barely damp, his (thankfully waterproof) cybernetic parts glinting here and there with water droplets where Caboose had managed to actually hit him.

“Look happy, don't they?”

“ _Jesus Christ!_ ” Wash swore, twisting to stare up at Sarge. A man that large and generally incompetent had no business being able to sneak up on him like that.

Sarge grinned down at him. “Not quite, but thanks for the compliment,” he said, laughing at his own joke.

“Can I help you with something, Sarge?” Wash asked. Sarge didn't socialize, and tended to hide whenever he was out of armor.

“Just came out to see what the noise was about,” Sarge said, sitting with no trouble at all. “Take it Grif's back at Blue Base?”

Wash nodded, not 100% buying it but willing to play along for now.

“Good. Boy could use an omega. Keep him on his toes.”

“I doubt this is going to turn into a lasting arrangement,” Wash said, glancing back out on the water as Caboose slipped, but managed to get back on his feet with a little help from Simmons. “For one, tomorrow they'll probably be shooting at each other again.”

Sarge laughed, clapping Wash on the shoulder hard enough to sting. “You betas just don't understand.”

Wash breathed in, held it, exhaled. Sarge smelled like a beta, but he certainly wasn't one, if he talked like that. Which meant... “So you're an omega, then.”

Sarge stiffened, face sliding into a scowl. “You wanna make something of it?”

Wash snorted. “I definitely don't, considering that would mean starting something with Tucker, too. And probably Simmons.”

Sarge glared at him for a minute before he finally relaxed, turning his attention back to the water. If Simmons was the mother and Wash was the father, Sarge was definitely the grumpy grandfather. The role suited him perfectly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Grif**  
>  Grif is an alpha, as you may have noticed. Thanks to the parts he got from Simmons, his scent is off, but he's still 100% alpha underneath. Oddly, omegas seem to be particularly drawn to him at all times, finding the strange mix of scent soothing. One of the few alpha instincts Grif tends to act on is to protect an omega in trouble, which might have something to do with it- he's protective without being possessive, and he certainly lacks the need to be dominant that makes a lot of alphas unbearable.
> 
> **Simmons**  
>  Much like Wash, Simmons has a non-functioning dynamic. Coming from the opposite end of the spectrum, Simmons was originally an omega, though a very late bloomer, not presenting until he was 22 when most omegas present in their early teens. The surgery that made him into a cyborg removed his scent glands and omega-specific internal organs, so he can't go into heat and doesn't have a scent. Unlike Wash, Simmons' dynamic is listed factually in his file.
> 
> **Sarge**  
>  Surprise surprise- Sarge is an omega. He actually used to be a huge name in the fight for equality on his home planet, to the point he pops up in any class discussing dynamic and/or omega rights there, to this day. His experiences in the military soured him toward his dynamic, however, and even though he no longer goes into heat, he still takes suppressants religiously to hide his scent.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Wash indulges his instincts and Valhalla gets domestic.

Tucker and Grif spent the rest of the day alternating between frenzied sex and exhausted sleep. The intensity started to taper off around 18:00, with longer pauses and gentler waves, until the last of the heat passed almost unnoticed just before midnight and they dropped into the deeper, almost coma-like sleep of post-heat.

Tucker woke up first. He slipped quietly out of bed and collected a pair of sweats by feel, then opened the door manually to avoid waking Grif. He escaped into the hall, sliding the door closed again and heading for the showers.

It was barely past sunrise, so the showers were empty, and Tucker was able to scrub himself clean uninterrupted. Part of him balked at the thought of erasing Grif's scent, but it wasn't like they were _bonded_ or something. Tucker neither wanted nor needed some alpha to take care of him and make him 'complete'. This wasn't some chick flick where the stubborn uppity omega got soothed into submission by the doting alpha. Grif would be a shit bondmate, anyway. They'd probably kill each other over snack cakes or something. Not to mention Tucker wasn't about to bond with anyone without Junior's approval.

So yeah, the part of him still ruled by instinct kicked up a fuss, but Tucker scrubbed off, anyway. Score one for higher brain functions.

Wash was waiting in the hall when Tucker had finished. He was out of armor still, unarmed and looking insanely uncomfortable.

“I made breakfast,” Wash said, blushing and not meeting Tucker's eyes. “I figured you'd be... hungry. So. Breakfast. If you are. Hungry, that is.”

Tucker snorted, grinning. It was unfair for ruthless and deadly former Freelancers to be that fucking adorable this early in the morning. “I'm starving,” he admitted. “You have a lot of experience with aftercare?”

Wash nodded, running a hand through his hair. “I hope I'm not stepping over any lines, I just...”

“It's cool,” Tucker said, waving a hand dismissively. “Let me go grab a shirt and kick Grif off my bed and I'll see you in the kitchen.”

“Speaking of Grif,” Wash said, clearing his throat. “Let him know the truce was extended another day. So he has time to rest.”

Tucker nodded, stepping around Wash, careful not to touch him. Some alphas were touchy about scents after heat. “I'll tell him,” he promised, heading for his room.

Grif was still asleep, sprawled across the bed flat on his back. Tucker studied him for a minute, taking in the scratches and fresh bruising that came from an intense and enjoyable heat, then punched him in the arm.

Grif woke up cursing, expression comically confused for a few seconds before he remembered where he was.

“Was that really fucking necessary?” he asked, sighing. “God, like I need even more bruises.”

“If you weren't such a submissive bitch I might have gone easier on you,” Tucker said, shrugging.

“Eh, you liked it,” Grif said with a shrug of his own.

Tucker snorted, digging out a shirt and pulling it on, but he didn't disagree. “Come on, get up- Wash made breakfast.”

Grif sat up with a groan. “I'm probably not invited. He doesn't seem to like me.”

Tucker leaned against the wall, watching Grif climb slowly out of bed and grab his clothes, cataloging the marks all over his body with a smile. It was unusual for the alpha to come out of heat with more bite marks than the omega. “Wash is an overprotective team dad,” he said. “If he tries to pitch a fit, I'll kick his ass for you.”

Grif smiled back, pulling on his shirt, then groaned again. “He probably wants to shoot me. I was a complete dick to him yesterday.”

“You're always a dick,” Tucker said. “Don't worry, I'll protect you.”

Tucker half expected a comment about how that was backwards. No idea why- Grif had already demonstrated in no uncertain terms that he didn't mind Tucker taking charge at all. Instead, Grif just grinned and opened the door.

“Let's go, then- I'm starving.”

 

* * *

 

Blue Base's dining hall had always seemed a bit big for just the three of them, especially when they were out of armor. Given the number of rooms, the bases had been intended for ten-man teams, and even Caboose could only fill up so much space by himself.

This morning, with Sarge and Simmons taking up half the second table between them, the place actually felt full. It was a good feeling.

A long time ago, sitting in a stuffy counselor's office and dreaming of escaping outside as soon as possible, a teenager named David had learned that he was a caregiver alpha, an alpha defined by protective instincts and a drive to provide. He'd been told he would probably eventually settle down with a unit instead of a spouse, and he should include domestic skills in his class selection for next year to be sure he was prepared.

David had taken cooking for the rest of middle school, then childcare and home finances in high school, and had been the only alpha in the senior Inter-Dynamic Social Studies course. He'd joined the UNSC, and from bootcamp onward his squad was always the most healthy and well-cared-for. He wasn't the best warrior, but he'd been told caregiver alphas didn't need to be- they wouldn't attract a unit based on their strength, anyway.

Project Freelancer had, to all intents and purposes, killed David. David had been crushed beneath the betrayal and manipulation of Project Freelancer, but Wash still had all those skills and instincts. He'd lost a lot of himself over the years, but one thing hadn't changed: he was still a caregiver.

So yes, he enjoyed the sight of a full dining hall, and he was not ashamed of that.

Caboose was already done with his first plate of pancakes by the time Wash made it back to the dining hall and was staring longingly at the platter in the center of the table. Wash smiled in spite of himself, grabbing the spatula and serving him another stack. Caboose wordlessly switched his soulful gaze to the artificial bacon.

Simmons looked up from his own plate, setting down his fork and watching him serve Caboose another helping of everything.

“Couldn't he have done that himself?” Simmons asked after a minute, and Wash smiled wider.

“Caboose isn't allowed to get himself seconds,” he explained. “Every time I let him he gives himself a stomachache.”

Caboose nodded, but Wash had at least gotten him to stop trying to talk with his mouth full.

Simmons nodded, picking his fork up again. “You're a really good cook. I'm kind of surprised.”

“Because alphas are hopeless around the house?” Wash guessed, getting another plate together for Tucker and setting it at his usual spot.

Simmons blushed, poking at his pancakes. “Grif can't cook.”

“Grif is definitely not an accurate representation of alphas,” Wash pointed out. Speaking of Grif, he should probably make him a plate, too. “Eat your breakfast.”

Sarge made a noise of indeterminate meaning, stealing a piece of bacon off the platter, and Simmons applied himself to eating.

Wash got Caboose another napkin and sat down as Tucker and Grif finally put in an appearance. They both sat without a word and started eating. Grif especially looked exhausted, but his appetite was healthy, at least. Tucker was in better shape, just as hungry as Wash had expected him to be.

The silence was comfortable. Easy. It felt right. Wash sat and nursed his juice, seeing no reason to break the silence or leave. The instincts Project Freelancer hadn't been able to dig out of him were all focused on this exact moment, and he wanted to enjoy it while he could.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a rundown of alpha types, since they came up in this chapter. Type is generally determined in the first year or two after an alpha presents, through a series of standardized tests and interviews with a health professional with a degree in Psychology of Dynamics.
> 
>  **The overseer alpha** is the rarest type of alpha, at only 2.5% of all alphas. They're driven to be in charge, to hold positions of power and respect. They are exceptionally possessive of what they consider 'theirs', and will always be the head of any group they're in. An overseer alpha will only tolerate other alphas if the power balance is strongly in their favor, and two overseer alphas will rarely be able to interact without it becoming a power struggle. They don't deal well with authority not their own, so you won't find many in the military.  
>  Malcolm Hargrove is a canon example of overseer alpha.
> 
>  **The lone wolf alpha** , while more common than the overseer, is still very rare, only about 4% of the total alpha population. These alphas tend to hold themselves apart from society as a whole, preferring to isolate themselves whenever possible. They rarely take lifelong mates of any dynamic and excel most at careers that require little to no direct interaction with others. Those that do choose military careers tend to be specialists such as infiltration, sharpshooters, or stealth ops.  
> Tex is a canon example of a lone wolf alpha.
> 
>  **The caregiver alpha** makes up nearly 15% of alphas, and is generally considered the 'weakest' type. They're often negatively compared to omegas due to their wish to care for those around them. The more people a caregiver has to look after, the happier they are. Where most alpha types will tend to settle down with a mate and possibly a beta or two, a caregiver alpha is most likely to form a family unit or group marriage with a mix of dynamics, sometimes even including a second more dominant alpha. To the caregiver, power and position always comes second to taking care of their unit, so the addition of a second alpha to their unit rarely results in conflict.  
>  Obviously, Wash is a canon example of a caregiver alpha.
> 
>  **The guardian alpha** is the most common type of alpha, filling in the wide gaps between the other types. They play well with others, unlike lone wolf alphas, and their protect/possess instincts are nowhere near as intense as those of the overseer alpha. Guardians are seen as the 'normal' alphas, and were thought for much of human history to be the only type, with the other three only being acknowledged in the past 150 years.  
>  Grif is a canon example of a guardian alpha.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a few talks are had and some boundaries are drawn.

The Reds didn't leave after breakfast. Sarge discovered that the Blues had a bigger media center and immediately planted himself in front of it, refusing to budge on the grounds that he was old and could do what he wanted. Caboose latched onto Grif and insisted he _needed_ to see the rocks out back so that they were busy and Agent Washington couldn't make them do dishes, and Grif naturally chose staring at rocks over work. Agent Washington just rolled his eyes and started clearing the tables by himself, waving Simmons off when he offered to help.

That was actually fine by Simmons, because he had something very important he needed to do, just as soon as he worked up the nerve.

Simmons might have come late to the whole being an omega thing – and left it a bit early – but that didn't mean he hadn't done his proper research. Dynamic was listed in everyone's restricted file, and every omega's standard kit included suppressants, either a monthly injection or an implant that needed to be replenished twice a year. Tucker should still be receiving a supply of suppressants, and Simmons couldn't see him purposely going off them. And even if he wasn't technically an omega anymore, Simmons had been taught that omegas needed to stick together, so if there was any way he could help...

The problem was, even out of his armor, Tucker was intimidating. He was a lot more solidly built than Simmons and carried his sword everywhere, even on ACD, and Simmons did not want to be stabbed. The theory of omega solidarity was nice and all, but in practice it was actually incredibly scary.

Fortunately – or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it – Simmons was saved from having to actually approach Tucker by _Tucker_ cornering _him_ in the hallway.

“Is there any particular reason you've been staring at me all morning?” Tucker asked, leaning against the wall and blocking any avenue of escape, unless any of the bunks in Blue Base had windows.

“Um,” Simmons said, mildly proud of the fact that he wasn't panicking. “I... wanted to talk to you?”

“What about?”

Simmons hesitated, biting his lip and flexing his artificial hand so that the whole arm creaked softly, a nervous gesture he'd acquired very fast. “Um,” he said again.

“Come on, spit it out- I'm only gonna kill you if this is some possessive bullshit how-dare-you-steal-my-alpha-you-whore talk.”

“No, no, nothing like that! I just wanted to know why you went into heat in the first place!”

Simmons had never actually seen someone's eyebrow twitch in anger before. He'd heard the expression, of course, and seen cartoons, but never witnessed it with his own eyes. The sight was almost enough to distract him from the fact that he'd just pissed Tucker off.

“I didn't mean it like that!” he hastened to explain, throwing his hands up defensively. “I don't think you did it on purpose! Please don't kill me!”

To his surprise, Tucker actually snorted, his apparent anger dissolving into gleeful laughter. “Oh my God, your _face!_ ” he exclaimed, leaning against the wall for support. “You actually thought I was gonna kill you, didn't you?”

Simmons glared his best, which only seemed to make Tucker laugh harder. “You are such a cockbite.”

“Come on, that was funny as hell,” Tucker insisted, getting himself under control for the moment. “Okay, really, stop it, you look like a kicked puppy.”

Simmons glared harder. It wasn't very effective. “If you're not gonna answer, can I go?”

“I ran out of suppressants,” Tucker said, sobering completely in the space of a heartbeat.

“No emergency supply in the medbay?”

Tucker shook his head. “Used 'em already. And honestly, the damn things haven't worked right since Junior was born, anyway. I tried asking for more, or even a different kind, but apparently giving birth to an alien doesn't even warrant a second exam. It wasn't so bad when I was hanging out with aliens, those guys have a serious cultural boner for omegas, but now it's just a pain in the ass.”

“Do they work at all?”

“Yeah. Mostly it's like... dunno if they ever had you on half-doses in Basic-” Simmons winced, remembering the haze of half-dosing and its many side effects, and Tucker nodded. “Yeah, it's like that. If I take enough, they still work like a charm. Getting enough to take is the real trick.”

“If it would help, you can have mine,” Simmons offered immediately. “I still get them even though I don't need them, so they basically just pile up until they expire. There's no point in letting them go to waste if you could use them, right?”

“They're still sending you suppressants?” Tucker asked. “I would've thought, what with...” he made a vague gesture that included Simmons' face and cybernetic arm. “Y'know.”

“Oh, Command doesn't know about my enhancements,” he said. “We broke forty-nine regulations and sixteen interplanetary laws with that operation, so Sarge decided it might be better to keep it to ourselves.”

“Makes sense,” Tucker said. “You're alright, Simmons. For a Red.”

Simmons smiled. “You're not so bad yourself, for a Blue.”

Tucker laughed, stretching. “C'mon, let's go find Dad and bug him to feed us.”

Simmons laughed as well. “You go ahead,” he said. “I'll run back to Red Base and get those suppressants for you.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“I'll be right back, then,” Simmons promised, stepping around Tucker. He could be back in plenty of time to have a say in what Agent Washington made for lunch.

 

* * *

 

Doing the dishes took longer with the extra three people, as did cleaning up the dining hall, so it was a bit later than Wash had planned by the time he dried his hands off and put away the last of the plates.

Someday he'd get around to fixing the dishwasher. Just not today.

Satisfied with the state of the galley, Wash headed for the back entrance. Knowing Caboose and Grif, they were probably still looking at the rock pile, so it made sense to look for them there first.

Sure enough, Grif was sprawled on the grass listening to Caboose tell some sort of story that involved blowing up either a moon or a large spaceship- it was hard to tell, because Caboose was referring to it as a moonship. Wash listened for a minute, smiling to himself, while he waited for Caboose to pause for breath.

“Caboose,” he said once he had an opening, “Have you cleaned your room yet today?”

“I was showing Grif the rocks,” Caboose said, smiling sheepishly and kicking lightly at the ground. Lightly for Caboose, anyway- he still kicked up a sizable chunk of dirt and grass, spraying it across Grif's leg.

“I'll finish showing Grif the rocks,” Wash said. “You go clean your room.”

“I can help, if you want,” Grif volunteered, eying Wash with clear apprehension.

“I am a big boy and can keep my room clean on my own,” Caboose said. He wasn't up to the more complicated or dangerous duties around the base, but he took great pride in not needing help to keep his bunk up to inspection standards, a pride Wash took pains to encourage.

Grif held his hands up in defeat, letting Caboose leave, then stood up and dusted off his sweats. “I should probably go clean my room, too...”

“No, you and I need to have a chat,” Wash disagreed, stepping into Grif's personal space, forcing him to back up until he ran into the rock pile. “A nice long friendly chat about what you did to Tucker yesterday.”

“I didn't do anything to Tucker yesterday that he didn't want me to,” Grif insisted, glancing to the side in search of either rescue or escape, probably. “He invited me in himself and everything.”

“ _After_ he'd already gone into heat, ” Wash said. “And _after_ you stood right next to his door and poured pheromones into the air he was breathing. That's more than enough to bring you up on charges. ”

“Charges?” Grif repeated. “Charges of _what_? ”

“Heat rape, for starters. And no, the charge probably wouldn't stick, but it would still make your life hell until it went away, and probably for a good long while after.”

Wash himself had never been charged with heat rape – mostly because he'd never done anything to make anyone accuse him of it – but other alphas in his unit had. He'd been up close and personal with how a vocal enough accusation could ruin an alpha. He knew how to make the biggest impact with it, and how to make that impact last long after the charge was dismissed or dropped, and he would do all that to Grif with no regrets or remorse if it meant protecting Tucker.

Grif opened his mouth, closed it, and glanced around again. “Look, seriously, I barely did anything at all. You can ask Tucker. Yesterday was completely his show.”

“Don't think I won't. And if it turns out you're lying, I'm going to ruin you. Understood?”

“Wash, what the fuck do you think you're doing?”

Wash glanced over his shoulder to find Tucker standing in the doorway behind him, arms crossed over his chest, glaring.

Grif, taking advantage of the slight breathing space, slipped around Wash and actually _hid behind Tucker_. “You promised to protect me, dude!”

Tucker sighed, lifting one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Wash, I'm gonna fucking kill you,” he said, almost conversationally. “Remember how I said thanks for looking out for me, now stop it? Yeah, that still applies. Knock it off. I'm not some helpless little omega who needs a big bad protector to scare off mean alphas, and it's frankly fucking insulting that you keep treating me like one.”

Wash almost interrupted, then thought better of it. Tucker was still armed, and while Wash was pretty sure he wouldn't resort to murder, there were plenty of painful places he could be stabbed non-fatally.

“I'm a big boy,” Tucker continued. “I can take care of myself. And this is me not in heat, not being influenced, telling you that it's my business who I fuck, so butt the fuck out. Got it?”

Wash nodded. “Got it,” he agreed.

“Good. C'mon, Grif, let's go see if we can steal the media center from Sarge.” Tucker turned without waiting for an answer, dragging Grif off by the front of his shirt.

Wash stepped back and leaned on the boulder he'd trapped Grif against, sighing. This was his life now, somehow. This screwed-up little unit that was breaking all the rules, somehow had an omega in charge of it, and was at war with itself half the time yet no one had any hard feelings about getting shot. _How_ was this his life?

And of course, right when he was about to dive into brooding disguised as deep philosophical contemplation was when Sarge found him.

“Hey, Agent Washington, it's gettin' kinda late- what's for lunch?”

Wash slid down the boulder into a crouch, buried his face in his hands, and sighed. “I give up,” he said. “I officially give up. You win.”

“Good- now get cookin'.”

Wash heaved himself to his feet and headed for the galley, telling himself firmly that he was not happy about the Reds inviting themselves into his unit. At all.

Really.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since we did alpha types last chapter, how about some omega types today?
> 
> Omega types are not a universally accepted theory at this time, and there is a great deal of debate among dynamic psychologists and researchers on the subject. There is no recognized or official listing of types and their parameters, but there are a couple... call them layman types, accepted at street level but not professionally recognized.
> 
> **The imperial omega** is not to be trifled with. They are bossy, self-assured, and definitely not the least bit meek or subservient, omegas in biology but alphas in temperament and personality. Imperial omegas would rather suffer heat alone than with an alpha who expects them to behave traditionally, and value their independence above all else. An imperial omega rarely settles down with an alpha, preferring betas or even other omegas as mates.  
>  Tucker would be a canon example of an imperial omega.
> 
> **The classical omega** is what would have been, for much of human history, the 'ideal' omega. They are retiring in nature, content to be cared for, and very much at peace with their dynamics. Their personalities lend themselves well to the traditional notion of what an omega 'should' be, and they generally have no problem with that. They're highly sought-after as mates by alphas, but there is negativity directed at them by progressives who feel the classical omega is undermining the push for dynamic equality.  
>  Simmons would be a canon example of a classical omega.
> 
> There are no available percentages for these types, as there is no official documentation to use as a source. Canon examples are based on the assumption that the classification is or would be officially sanctioned; the characters listed would likely not give these classifications to themselves, preferring to be called simply omegas.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the part where you look at me like I'm crazy.
> 
> And also where I mention I'm a shameless comment whore. In case you fall for that sort of thing.


End file.
